


Another Lonely Night

by SugarsweetRomantic



Series: Bridget Westfall, or: The Fine Art of Self-Destruction [1]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 04:33:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11154321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarsweetRomantic/pseuds/SugarsweetRomantic
Summary: 'I fucking love you!’ The strangled admission from Franky resonated in Bridget’s ears as she pulled out of the parking lot of Wentworth Correctional Facility, possibly for the last time in her life.





	Another Lonely Night

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes: Mentions of alcoholism.

_ Alone in the dark, hole in my heart, turn on the radio _

_ And the words fall out, but they got no place to go _

_ Wasted on you, high on the fumes _

_ Know I should let you go _

_ But the world won't stop _

_ And all I got is your ghost, oh, oh oh _

 

Bridget groaned softly as she rolled onto her side. The bright red LED-display of her alarm clock told her that it wasn’t time to get up yet. In fact, it glared at her, scolding her for even being awake at this hour of day. Or night. Rubbing at her eyes, she sighed, and sat up straight in the bed. Maybe, just maybe, some hot chocolate would help her fall asleep. It always had worked when she was younger, so it was worth a shot, right? A strip of temazepam capsules was calling her name from the bathroom counter, where she’d left them ever since her GP had prescribed them. She refused to take them. Rationally, she knew they were safe to take. They would help her get past that first stadium of sleep, and then her body would naturally continue into the further stages of her sleep cycle, but something about them scared her. Perhaps it was drugging herself without having anyone nearby in case something went wrong. Bridget had never been a fan of medication, nor of doctors, come to think about it. She preferred to wait things out. Then, if she really didn’t start to feel better, and only then, she would seek medical attention.

 

She walked into the living room to be greeted by a small ball of fur brushing against her ankles.

“Hi George,” she whispered, crouching to scratch the small feline behind his ears. A sharp pain shot through her spine at the motion. The lack of sleep and all of her twisting and turning had started to have a physical effect on her body, and it was making the whole situation just that tiny bit more frustrating. George let out a soft meow in acknowledgement of his human entering his domain, before trotting off towards the couch and curling up, falling into a deep slumber immediately. Bridget looked on in envy.

 

As she heated the milk in the microwave oven, she grabbed the cocoa powder out of a barely-used cabinet. It was a small miracle she still had any, really. The loud ping of the electromagnetic device telling her that it was done gave her a fright. Without anyone else in the house with her, it had been awfully quiet over the past weeks. She quickly dumped the advised teaspoons of powder into the milk, and added another half just because she could. Stirring gently, she picked up the mug, intending to walk back to the bedroom and drink it there. Hopefully then, if it worked, she could fall asleep without having to move herself to the room first, risking waking herself up again. As she rounded the corner, she let her free hand trail across the pieces of furniture she encountered. Suddenly, her digits felt the smooth, cool surface of glass. She looked at her hand to see the bourbon whiskey she kept for the days when her father visited her. It would be a bad idea to...wouldn’t it? Then again, she mused, she felt more comfortable using a little alcohol to induce sleep, than to medicate herself. Make up your mind, Westfall! She set the mug down next to the bottle of amber liquid, opened it up, and poured a generous amount into the chocolate. The clear, somewhat syrupy liquid mixed beautifully with the creamy milk. She stirred carefully, creating a swirling pattern on the surface. She would never understand her father’s preference for the sweet, smoky liquor, but mixing things with chocolate was rarely a bad idea.

 

She walked into the bedroom and slipped under the cool sateen sheets. The tyrian purple of the bedding contrasted brightly with the soft creme nightgown she was wearing. Rising the steaming mug to her lips, she took a tentative sip. The rich creaminess of the chocolate was the first stimulation to access her tastebuds, but it was quickly followed by the gentle sting of the alcohol. She hadn’t drunk anything remotely alcoholic in weeks, she realised, and the ethanol was very quickly flooding her system. She chuckled softly at the slight numbness that was already settling in. Oh, she was going to sleep tonight. She should have thought of this much sooner, she thought, making a mental note to chuck the temazepam in the morning. She knew her own body better than any doctor anyway, and apparently this was what she needed to fall asleep without… Without her. She just had to make sure it didn’t get out of control, but one spiked hot chocolate before bed every night couldn’t hurt, could it?

 

_ Another day, another lonely night _

_ I would do anything to have you by my side _

_ Another day, another lonely night _

_ Don't wanna throw away another lonely life _

As she was standing in her kitchen, gently stirring a tomato sauce for her pasta, Bridget felt fairly proud of herself. She was coping, and she was coping quite well. She actually hadn’t expected herself to be able to handle this entire fucked-up situation this well, but it was working out. She had started eating again, and not just frozen dinners and delivery, but actual home-cooked meals. She had even had her father over for dinner two days ago, and they had had a lovely time. Measuring out 200 milliliters of cabernet sauvignon she carefully poured the wine into the sauce, letting it mix with the vermillion of the tomatoes. The liquid hissed as the alcohol evaporated into the warm air above the stovetop. Grabbing a wine glass, she filled it with a generous amount.

“One for the sauce, and one for me,” she whispered as she raised the thin crystal to her lips, letting the rich, full-bodied taste make its way down her throat. She chuckled softly as she remembered what her grandfather had once said about Cab Sav: ‘Imagine you’ve filled a new leather bag with a pound of black cherries and hold it to your chest while you roll down a hill.’ He wasn’t far off, she mused. Walking over to the dining room table, she grabbed the remote control off of the surface and switched on the audio system. Mellow jazz filled the room. Perfect. Fred hopped up onto the table and nudged her hand with his head. Smiling, she stroked his grey coat, reveling in the feeling of the soft fur between her fingertips.

 

Once all of the alcohol had evaporated and the sauce had thickened thoroughly, she pulled the pan off of the heat and mixed in the spaghetti. 

“Beautiful,” Bridget announced to no-one in particular. She refilled her glass and sat down to eat.

 

By the end of the night, Bridget was cleaning up after herself before heading to bed. Surprisingly, the bottle of wine that she had opened that afternoon after returning home from Wentworth was now empty. She must have used more in the sauce than she realised, she figured. At least she was feeling relaxed, and that was what counted. She eyed the brandy that she had now moved to the kitchen counter. It was much too warm out for hot chocolate, but she might as well just take the shot of American whiskey. It had been helping her fall asleep for days now; it would be stupid to stop now. Making her mind up, she grabbed a snifter and poured two thumbs’ worth of the dark amber liquid. Throwing it back in one go, she groaned at the sensation of the alcohol burning in the back of her throat. Oh, she would sleep well tonight.

 

_ No time to sleep, all that I see, are old memories of you _

_ Yeah I try my best, but there's no one left for me to lose _

_ Tear in my eye, I drive through the night, as far as I can from you _

_ And I don't give a fuck if the sun comes up, yeah _

_ It's just another _

 

‘I fucking love you!’ The strangled admission from Franky resonated in Bridget’s ears as she pulled out of the parking lot of Wentworth Correctional Facility, possibly for the last time in her life. Bloody hell; she had hoped that she could have resigned without this mess of emotions running through her body and mind. Maybe if she was completely honest, she mused, she had hoped she could have left without being faced with Franky. Slip out of there unnoticed, just like Rose Atkins and Matthew Fletcher had done. Just disappearing from the world of Wentworth like a thief in the night.

 

Taking a left turn, she realised she didn’t feel like driving home. All there would be waiting there would be two cats and a turtle - Franky’s turtle. Her things were there; her scent still hung there. And if it didn’t, it sure felt to her like it did. She slammed the vehicle into a U-turn at the next crossing. 

 

While the Melbourne city scenery flashed by, Bridget’s thoughts went to her own behaviour over the past weeks. She had not been coping at all, had she? She had convinced herself through alcohol and throwing herself into her work that she was managing, but she was slowly realising that she had been abusing the alcohol. She chuckled at the irony: she had refused to take any prescription drugs to help calm her nerves and help her sleep because she had been afraid she would become dependent on them, and instead she had nearly lost herself in a different way. She didn’t look like herself anymore; she’d even told Franky that. When she looked at herself in a mirror, or even at her reflection in an office window or the lacquer on a car, she saw a nearly empty shell of the woman she had once been. Her hair was uncombed and messy, and her clothing was whatever she would find during a blind grab into her wardrobe, instead of the detailedly planned-out outfits she normally wore. She was pale, her cheeks were hollow and she had bags under her eyes that even her concealer, of which Franky had once claimed it was ‘fucking overpriced as hell, Gidge’, could not hide. Her body felt stiff and tired, and it didn’t feel like herself.

 

She had tried to numb one pain with another, hadn’t she? Instead of automutilation in its simplest form, she had stopped taking proper care of herself. She had stopped eating well, and she had even stopped taking the medication that suppressed the migraines she occasionally would get. Then, when that had gotten to a point where that process couldn’t sustain itself anymore, she had proceeded to numb the pain with alcohol. Who was she kidding, she had known perfectly well that getting herself to fall asleep by intoxicating herself was a bad idea. What she hadn’t taken into consideration though, is that it would get out of hand to the point where Liz had smelled the alcohol on her breath. She honestly thought that it wasn’t that bad, but now that she thought about it, she had been consuming at least four or five glasses per day over the last week. 

 

Numbing the pain was a horribly ineffective coping method; she knew this. God, she preached it daily, and yet here she was, guilty of doing it herself. She was such a hypocrite. Liz had been right to judge her, hadn’t she? How could she possibly teach these women how to cope with the negatives in their lives, when she herself couldn’t even handle a little heartbreak? It had made her ill to her stomach with a broken heart. 

 

Franky had begged her to stay. ‘If you just hang in there, I’ll find a way for us to be together. We can get out of this place. We can go to another fucking country. And we’ll start fresh; we’ll start again.’ Franky was a dreamer. She had always been one. It was the way she had coped with being inside, and even after her release Bridget would often find the younger woman staring out into the yard, her thoughts a million miles away. Bridget didn’t do dreams. She was a realist. She couldn’t allow herself to dream of running away with the brunette. If she did, she knew the reality would hit her like a brick wall once it set in, and she would not be able to pick up the pieces of her soul when it did. She just couldn’t. She needed to distance herself from the dream, the paradise, no matter how much it ripped her apart to say goodbye.

 

_ Another day, another lonely night _

_ I would do anything to have you by my side _

_ Another day, another lonely night _

_ Don't wanna throw away another lonely life _

 

The wind was blowing mightily at Williamstown, and it played with Bridget’s short locks and the scarf she had found in the boot of her car. The waves were rough, so rough that it almost looked like the water was dancing. She had walked here with Franky quite a lot. The younger woman loved feeling the coastal breeze - she said it made her feel even more free than anything else in the world. She would walk out in front of Bridget, with her arms stretched out, and her face angled towards the sun, and she would nearly squeal: ‘Just feel it, Gidge! Feel the wind, feel the sun, feel the salt. We’re alive!’ Bridget smiled at the memory. Would Franky ever be able to feel that again? Or would the faults and loopholes in the system condemn her to a life behind bars, concrete, and teal-coloured walls?

 

Bridget found herself unable to stand up any longer, and she let herself drop to the sand. She wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling them towards her chest, and she cried in drawn-out, agonising sobs. She didn't even know why exactly she was crying. Was it for Franky, for the unfairness and unjustness of the way the system was treating her? Was it for herself, for the disastrous cycle she seemed to have gotten stuck in? Was it for their relationship, for what it had been and for what it now would never have the chance of becoming? Possibly, maybe, she sobbed for all of that and more. It was too much; it just was too much.

 

She had no idea how long she had spent sitting there, only that her tears had run out and that the agonised wails had been replaced by deep, shaky breaths, when suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. Bridget looked up to see an elderly couple standing to her side, handing her something. 

“I don't mean to impose,” the woman began, pressing what she had now realised was a cup of tea into her hands, “but we have been walking here for about an hour and a half and we hadn't seen you move at all, so I thought you would maybe like something warm to drink.” The man on whose arm she was leaning shot Bridget a soft smile.

“Thank you,” the psychologist replied, wrapping her hands around the reinforced cardboard. The heat of the contents warmed her palms. Her voice sounded hoarse and raw, and she flinched at the harshness of the sound.

“No matter what, you must always remember to look after yourself as well. You cannot throw away your life in exchange for someone else's. You are of no use to the universe if you forget to love and take care of yourself. Take care, okay?” the woman told her gently but sternly. Bridget nodded absentmindedly as she let the meaning of the words sink in. Take care of herself. That was what she had to do. It was the only way to get through this. 

 

When she looked around to thank the couple again for their kindness, they had vanished. She almost thought she had dreamt their existence, if it weren't for the slowly cooling beverage in her hands.

 

_ No I don't give a fuck if the sun comes up, yeah _

_ It's just another _

 

As she walked through the front door of her home, Bridget felt numb but determined. It was time to stop the unhealthy cycle, and to love herself. She was too tired now, but tomorrow she would clean. She would not allow herself to wallow in self-pity any longer. She would grieve, but she wouldn’t let it get out of control again.

 

If only it hadn’t cost her her relationship with Franky. 

 

George padding across the kitchen island caught her attention, and as she shooed him from the surface a clear bottle stood out. Shaking her head, she grabbed it, twisted it open, and dumped the contents down the sink. A sweet, fruity smell filled the kitchen. She was completely done with it. Her father would survive without his glass of brandy, and it definitely hadn't been doing her any good. She knew she was completely out of wine, and she wasn’t going to buy any new bottles for a while. She refused to become dependent on something as basal as alcohol. 

 

A soft purring against her calf made her look down at the floor. Fred had gotten up from his spot near the window to gently nudge her. Bridget bent down to pet the senior British Shorthair, and he contently began washing her fingers.

“That's better, huh mate?” she asked the cat. He just continued marking his favourite human.

 

_ Another day, another lonely night _

_ Ooh, I would do anything to have you by my side _

_ Another day, another lonely night _

_ Don't wanna throw away another lonely life _

 

Bridget was coping. She was. She wasn’t sure of how she was doing it all the time, but she was eating, and she had cleaned the entire house, and she had taken time to cry. She was coping. 

 

She was folding clean laundry when her phone rang. Humming softly she walked over to her purse and grabbed her mobile. The screen flashed an unknown mobile number at her. Strange, not many people called her nowadays. Smiling, she swiped ‘answer’. 

“Hello?”

_ ‘Gidget, it's me.’ _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I wanted to write Bridget's descent into the negative spiral that we've seen happen on the show, but at the same time show how she pulls herself out of it. She is a grown woman, and a forensic psychologist, and the queen of self-reflection, and that's what I wanted to depict here.


End file.
